


The Only Shame Is To Have None

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Kinks, M/M, Rape/Non-con - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: Sam has no soul. And no shame. Which makes for a restless and anguished night for Dean...





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after 6.7 Family Matters, so some spoilers. Although there is no actual violence, this is pretty dark - mind-fucking and dub con - so please proceed with care :)

  
Summary: Sam has no soul. And no shame. Which makes for a restless and anguished night for Dean...  
Categories: Sam/Dean > Season Six Characters:  None  
Fun Genres:  None  
Genres:  Angst, First Time, PWP  
Warnings:  Kinks, Rape/Non-con  
Challenges: None  
Series: None  
Chapters:  1 Completed: Yes  
Word count: 3145 Read: 2033  
Published: 11/18/2010 Updated: 11/18/2010

 

 

Story Notes:

This is set after 6.7 Family Matters, so some spoilers. Although there is no actual violence, this is pretty dark - mind-fucking and dub con - so please proceed with care :)

 

In the dream, Dean lashes out over and over again at the faceless threat. He's as good as blind, but he knows he has to land a solid punch or he's dead. Maybe worse. Only each time he tries, even though his aim is true and he throws his whole weight behind it, his fist is ineffectual, his arm rubbery and limp. It doesn't feel like he's making contact at all, stopping just shy, but it's weird because he can hear something. The gentle slap of flesh on flesh.

He stops swinging and his attacker retreats. Actually more like vanishes into thin air, but the noises continue. Then Dean feels the shift. He's in that shallow place between reverie and consciousness, and then he's back in the room.

What _is_ that sound?

It's followed him into wakefulness. It sounds kind of moist and like -

Oh shit!

Dean's sluggish brain slips the final jigsaw piece into place and suddenly he recognises that sound all too well. Especially now it is punctuated by Sam's staccato breaths and bitten off grunts as he tries to move surreptitiously in his own bed a few feet away.

Well, this is awkward.

Dean tries to keep his own breathing even and deep so as not to give himself away. He knows Sam doesn't sleep at all anymore. He's seen his brother's new found appetite for all the pleasure and pain flesh can afford etched in his otherwise dispassionate eyes. He's noticed the way Sam regards most things with the cold, curious gaze of a damaged child, pulling the legs of a live insect one by one. Except now and then there's a flare of something primeval and base.

Like the way he'd looked when Dean was being held down. When his jaw was being forced open by two hundred and fifty pounds of amorous, hirsute vamp and he'd fleetingly met his brother's gaze. The strange quirk of his lips – almost a smile. Dean's tried to not to think about what that look meant. It makes cold tendrils of nausea squirm low in his belly.

He knows the thing in the next bed is not his brother. Not really. Not his Sammy. So it shouldn't surprise him that this husk has no qualms about beating off in the same room as Dean. He has an itch and needs it scratched. Simple. This _not quite Sam_ doesn't have the awkward diffidence of his former self. Nothing like it. Dean knows this. What he can't fathom is why it's affecting _him_ the way it is...

His heart is hammering double time at his ribs and his mouth is suddenly parched. There's an odd, metallic tang on the back of his tongue. He remembers it – recognises it as the taste of shame. And why is that? Maybe because the hollow thing in his brother's skin is making these incredible, urgent groans and it sounds like Sam but not like Sam. It has the easy, low voice – a hint of a drawl – that makes Dean think of family and duty and home. But now there's there's this dirty, raw underbelly which is scary but also kind of thrilling. Especially now. It's choked with what could be desire and rage – if this Sam-shaped thing could feel them. And it's making Dean hard.

'It's OK,' he thinks to himself. 'It's just a response to the sound of sex. Pavlov's dogs. Could be anyone. Doesn't mean a thing.'

Dean's downstairs brain often stirs into life when his upstairs brain does. He figures it's his body's way of asserting there's still life and energy flowing in his blood after each little nightly slice of death. He really can't be held accountable for the way he's throbbing in his sleep shorts right now, especially given the aural assault his little brother's laying on him.

Sam's getting careless now, thrashing about and moaning. His hand speeds up and Dean hopes this will be over soon. But after a few moments, everything abruptly stills and Sam's rasping voice permeates the soupy atomosphere of the motel room.

“I know you're awake.”

Dean's heart does a full somersault in its cage.

Sam clicks on the lamp which sits on the rickety table between their beds. He throws back the coverlet and pivots, planting his feet on the floor and fixing Dean with a glare of frightening intensity.

“Do you wanna watch me?”

Sam is naked. The malicious amusement in his eyes is shiny and sharp for a second and Dean is too stunned to respond immediately. His eyes slide down from his brother's face but he instantly regrets letting them because they come to rest on Sam's hand wrapped around his hard, wet cock.

Dean swallows thickly and his eyes snap back to Sam's now cold face.

“Dude! _Sick_! What the fuck, man? Can't you do that in the bathroom?”

Dean realises this would have more conviction if that waver wasn't jerking his voice all over the place.

Sam gives him another of those eerie half-smiles.

“It's more fun this way,” he says, as he resumes stroking his huge, glistening length.

Dean is out of words. He feels heat crawling up his face and his stomch lurches at the intent tainting Sam's voice. He snorts and makes to flip over, his back to Sam, but the voice from the next bed over is fierce and commanding.

“Look at me!”

It stops Dean dead. There is an icy, liquid chill dribbling down his spine, chasing the heat which travels through him in waves.

“Sam, I -”

It's broken and cracked and barely a whisper.

“Look at me,” Sam repeats calmly. “You want to. I know you do.”

Dean takes a deep breath and studies his brother's impassive face.

“Sam, I know you don't understand right now, but this is...this is fucked up. You need to stop.”

“Why?”

The question is so earnest, so nearly innocent that Dean almost laughs. Almost.

“Why? Are you _kidding_ me? Sam, I'm your _brother_.”

“So? Do I disgust you?”

Another curve ball. Dean brings his hands up to massage the dull ache starting to form in his temples.

“I...no. You don't _disgust_ me, it's just...you're freaking me out right now. You're a _guy_ and my _brother_ and...It's just. It's _wrong_ , Sammy.”

It costs him dearly to call this shell by his beloved brother's name.

“This is the kind of thing you need to do in private. Now put it away! Jesus!”

Dean feels ridiculous, talking to the hulking man opposite him, all tight, honed muscle and glowing, golden skin, like he's a child. Instructing. Teaching. Correcting. It's too close to how they've always been and yet so far removed. He swallows down the panic he feels rising in his throat.

“See, the thing is, Dean...”

Sam's voice is slow and deliberate. His brow is furrowed, like he's puzzling through a case. The sheen of sweat on his chest gives him an almost ethereal look. The irony is not lost on Dean. Sam's cupped hand swivels around the head of his cock and he allows the moan to work its way into his words.

“...You say that it's wrong, but it feels so good. You're hard. And wet. I can see it in your eyes and I can smell the way you're soaking your shorts right now.”

Dean gathers the bedspread to himself as if doing so will offer him protection from his brother's clinical scrutiny. He's bare-chested and feels to exposed suddenly. He's mortified by how small his voice is when he finds it.

“Sam, you have to stop -”

“Get it out.”

That terrifying steeliness again. The underlying threat of violence.

“ _What_?”

Dean's incredulity raises his voice a whole octave.

“I said _get it out_. Now.”

“Sam! -”

“ _Now_ , Dean.”

Dean feels like he's falling as he slowly sits up, shifts the covers aside and reaches inside his shorts. He wonders for a second if he might throw up. His fingers find his aching cock and he pulls it out, hitches his clothing down, enjoying the cooler air on his searing flesh despite himself.

“Sam, don't do this.”

Dean searches his brother's face for a flicker of sanity but finds Sam's attention has dropped to his groin. He looks rapt and slowly licks his lips. Dean's treacherous dick twitches at the sight.

“Touch it.”

Sam's breathing heavily now, jacking himself lazily.

“What? No!”

“Just do it, Dean.”

“No!”

“Do it now, Dean or I'm gonna come over there and pin you down until the only words you remember are seven kinds of 'yes'.”

“Jesus,” Dean whispers as his trembling hand strays to his leaking cock. There's no coming back from this. He knows that. This is going to happen and when his soul returns to its seat, Sam's body is going to remember the night he forced his big brother to jerk off for his own twisted gratification.

“Sam, _please_ -”

There are tears needling hot behind his eyes. They are tears for the absent part of Sam which will have to deal with the fallout of this if it returns. They are tears of shame but also of delicious frustration. Sam's groaning loudly and his hand speeds up, pumping slickly along his shaft. A tiny but incessant thought scuds back and forth between all the confusion and panic and disbelief clamouring in Dean's head: _He looks so fucking beautiful_.

“Fuck your hand, Dean. You'll feel so much better if you just let go.”

Dean severely doubts that. But he's so hard it's almost pain, and he moans gratefully as he arches up into his own tight fist.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “You look so hot. Can't wait to see that pretty face when you come for me.”

“Sammy!” Dean answers on a low growl, wrung from somewhere in the pit of his stomach and goddamn if that name doesn't feel like it belongs on his tongue right now.

Dean is so screwed.

“Watch me, Dean. You've heard me doing this so many times. I bet you've wondered what it would look like. I know I have when I've heard you. How is it, Dean? Is it like you imagined?”

“Sam, I -” Dean's hand stops and he lets his eyes fall shut.

“Look at me, Dean. Don't you fucking dare stop. Tell me the truth.”

Dean's hand resumes it's erratic movement up and down his aching, swollen dick and he blinks back the tears starting in his eyes again. He clears his dry throat.

“Yeah, I've wondered, Sammy.”

It feels like something breaks inside him, but Sam looks like he's received the benediction he was seeking.

“Tell me.”

Dean feels brittle and devestated but the words come regardless, spilling from his lips like a dying confession.

“When you were younger – growing – when you got taller than me, started filling out...”

“Go on,” Sam urges, his cock plunging in and out of his fist, making obscene, wet sounds.

“I used to wonder how big it was. If it looked like mine. If it was straight or curved. Longer. Thicker...”

“Yeah. Oh, fuck, yeah,” Sam chants, the intensity of his gaze burning holes into Dean.

“Used to wonder if it would feel different...my hand on you. Yours on me. If you would let me.”

Sam's making these gasping little sobs now and his hand is a blur.

“Goddamn it, Dean. Keep talking.”

Dean rolls his tongue over his lips, tries to work up some saliva.

“Wondered if you'd let me suck it. What it would feel like in my mouth. What it would taste of. Whether you'd go down on me. _Oh God_...”

Dean hates himself more than he ever thought possible at this moment, but every filthy, depraved fantasy he's ever nearly had about his little brother, all the rotten, buried things are shaken loose. They are teeming in his brain, begging to birthed.

Sam's biting down on his lower lip now, strong white teeth worrying the tender flesh to a deep dusky pink.

“Yeah, Dean. I'd do that. I'd suck you off so good. Let you pump your wad down my throat. Swallow it all up. Is that what you want?”

“Fuck, Sammy!” It's so gutteral, it hurts his arid throat. Dean imagines Sam's come, salty-sweet, coating it like a linctus. He pumps into his hand with renewed ferocity, feeling the first tingling fingers of his orgasm spread out over his lower back.

“Wait!”

Something in Sam's voice makes it impossible for Dean to defy him, although his aborted climax leaves him trembling. His hand stops and he looks into his brother's slanted grey-green eyes. Sam stands and walks the two paces it takes to bridge the distance between them.

“Lay back,” he says low and dirty.

Dean obeys. If he has any other choice now, he can't remember what it is.

“Suck your finger.”

Dean goes to move his hand from his agonisingly engorged cock but Sam shakes his head.

“Other hand.”

Dean slips the index finger of his left hand between his plush lips and Sam growls at the sight.

“Finger yourself.”

Dean's huge green eyes open wide and he thinks about protesting. Then another roll of dark, shivery disgrace works through him and he drops his hand to the bed, between his legs until his spittle wet finger finds his opening. He teases himself lightly, surprised at how good it feels, how senstive he is there.

“Such a slut, Dean.”

Sam smirks down at him. From this angle he looms enormous, his dick impossibly rigid and pulsing in time with his heart.

“Put it in. I want you to fuck yourself. Make it good and deep. You're gonna work yourself like that for me – front and back.”

“Oh, God. _Jesus Christ_ , Sam.”

Dean is babbling as he breaches his hole with just the tip of his finger. Sam bends down close, between Dean's legs, icy chips of fascination glittering in his eyes. Dean watches as Sam narrows his eyes, hawks suddenly and spits on the puckered opening. Dean feels warm, thick saliva ooze down his finger and pushes it up inside himself with a shudder.

It's a weird sensation, but Dean is worked up beyond all rational thought now and that makes it pleasure. He sinks his finger in deeper, Sam's spit easing the way. He's biting his lips sore, mesmerised by the action of Sam's hand on his own slippery cock.

Maybe none of this happening the way he thinks. If his brother's trapped down below, maybe Dean's nightmares are taking him there too. Maybe Dean isn't even alive. Would he know it? He and Sam shared paradise for a while, so wouldn't their souls seek each other out on the flip side too?

“Harder!” Sam barks, and Dean pushes the final inch inside, finds the place which makes his hips piston up of their own volition, pushing his weeping dick into his waiting hand, and hits it again. A surprised, winded groan is ripped from his mouth and he starts to thrust his finger out-in-out-in-out. He licks his lips. Scrapes with his teeth. Feels the delicate skin part slightly under them, the sting, and tastes his own blood.

“Take your hand off your dick.”

Dean almost starts to cry as he moves his hand away. He grinds down harder on his finger for a while, watches the way Sam's abs clench and release in the lamp light. He wants to lick a trail there, to smell warm, sweat-damped skin, feel the fine, downy hair on his belly under his split lower lip.

He's dying to get a hand around his throbbing cock again, but Sam's forbidding it with a keen glare.

“Dean. You have no idea how hard I'm going to get off on this view,” Sam says quietly.

Dean arcs his back off the bed and fights to keep his eyes open, to keep them fixed on what's left of his brother.

“And you're going to come with me, Dean. Going to push that nice, thick finger in a few more times and shoot a big load all over your stomach for me.”

Dean's whimpering now. Every muscle in his body is straining to get there. He knows Sam is right. He's going to lose it any second because he's sicker than he ever understood. He going to lose it with just his own finger up his goddamn ass, under the indifferent gaze of the void wearing his brother's skin.

“I remember, Dean,” Sam says in a strangled voice. “Remember wanting this. How much it hurt. How black and filthy it felt.”

“Don't,” Dean begs in a cracked whisper.

“It's true. But now...Oh God, Dean. Now it's so fucking pure. So clean. So beautiful. Wanna see you shoot it now, Dean.”

Dean feels his body readying against all odds.

“Oh _fuck yes_. Now!”

And just like that Dean's hips are bucking uncontrollably as he rides his own hand, long, drawn out spurts of milky fluid landing in scrawls across his stomach and chest. He comes from somewhere completely different. It's more like in a dream – his diseased mind and Sam's command wringing his body out more than a physical act ever could, pushing him further than he even thought possible.

And Sam.

Jesus.

Sam is watching him with those tilted eyes, mouth open in a silent holler. His hand ceases its frantic motion on his cock. His hips stutter forward, once, twice, and then he's shooting. Hot, viscous come lands on Dean with a soft patter, branding the over-sensitised skin of his inner thighs, his taut belly, his chest. Sam bucks a third time, harder, and Dean flinches as droplets land on his chin and his lips. He swipes his tongue out unthinkingly, his brother's peppery taste filling his mouth.

Sam staggers backwards, eyes still glued to Dean's spent body, his skin glistening with perspiration and smears of semen. He gives a mirthless laugh and flings himself back into bed, the matress squeaking in protest under his weight.

Dean wipes at himself with the corner of the coverlet. Now that the last vestige of his climax has passed, he feels stunned and sick with remorse. Sam's flavour cloying on his tongue. He wants to get up. Go to the sanctuary of the bathroom. Shower with water so hot it would make his skin beet-red. But he won't. He doesn't trust his legs to hold him up. Instead he switches off the light, turns his back to the thing that looks like Sammy. He balls his body up, drawing his knees to his chest, and lets the tears come then.

He knows Sam can probably sense them, and what's more, he won't really care.

But the worst of it - the thing that's quietly killing Dean – is that now, if he ever gets his brother back whole, he will care. He'll care a lot.

 

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.sinful-desire.org/archive/viewstory.php?sid=3811>


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